


Real Life Ghost Stories

by LeeMarieJack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeMarieJack/pseuds/LeeMarieJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Winchester ghost hunts based on real life stories. I plan to try to work up some of the most famous haunts. If you have a favorite, PM me with the suggestion and I'll see what I can do with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fort Laramie Phantoms

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.  
Real Ghost Stories  
Chapter 1 - Fort Laramie Phantoms

The Impala rumbled up to the gates of Fort Laramie Historical Site and waited for the Park Ranger to open up his little booth’s window.   
“Hi,” Dean smiled. “We’re here to meet with Ranger McDonald.”  
“Are you the guys about the ghost?” the uniformed Ranger asked.  
Dean was shocked and answered, “Short and sweet, Yes.” He had never expected to be greeted openly by a government employee as ‘the guys here to see about the ghost’. It was like they were plumbers here to see about the leak.  
Sam leaned forward to get a good look at Dean’s face. “Maybe we should get uniforms.” He snickered.  
“Shut up bitch,” Dean pushed him back into his seat with one arm. “We don’t do uniforms.  
The Ranger grimaced “Are you guys done?” He looked from one brother to the other. “Drive straight ahead until you see the building with a sign that says Administration. McDonald’s waiting for you there.”  
The Ranger shut his little sliding window and pick up a clipboard. Dean imagined the guy checking off a little box beside ‘Ghost hunters, expected 11 AM.’  
They followed the neatly graveled road, edged by perfectly manicured lawn, to the Admin building, parked and stepped out of the car. A screen door swung open, held by another Ranger. “Campbells?”  
Dean climbed the stairs and Sam stood momentarily by the Impala, trying to gauge their reception.  
“Well, come on in. I’m Ranger Brad McDonald. Been waiting for you.” He turned and disappeared into the cool darkness of the building.  
The brothers moved to enter. The warm Wyoming sun encouraged a dive into shadow and the room beckoned with promises of comfortable chairs and cool drinks. The Ranger was moving around at a long counter and the pleasant sound of ice cubes rattling in glasses echoed in the room.  
“Have a seat.” McDonald waved at the fat leather chairs. “Let me fill you in on our problem.” He handed each of them a tall class of clear soda.  
McDonald was an older man, neatly uniformed and gray haired. He could be described as ‘tidy’. For some reason he made Dean think of the neatly mowed grass and raked gravel outside. He wondered if McDonald had turned this park into the fabled tight ship.  
“I don’t know what, if anything, you might know about Fort Laramie.” He started.  
“Not all that much,” Dean said. “Garth just told us you were having problems with what he called ‘a long time ghost’ and told us to get up here and that the Park Service was willing to pay us for our time.”  
“That’s right.” McDonald responded. “I understand you guys are supposed to be the best. I’d like this cleared up with the least amount of fuss. Really don’t want it to get out that the US Park Service is paying to have their ghosts cleaned up.”  
Dean and Sam nodded together. “That’s fine with us.” Sam said. “The less noise the smoother the hunt.”  
Ranger McDonald looked up at them. “Yeah, that’s what Fitzgerald called it, a hunt.”  
“Fort Laramie was manned by the U.S. Calvary from 1834 to 1890. The men were tasked with keeping peace and order in the territory and she was known as The Queen of the Frontier Forts. From here settlers set out on the Oregon, the California and the Bozeman trails, all heading away for new lives out west. People passed through and never came back. Calvary officers brought their families and lived at the Fort for years. Lots of history, death and drama worked its way out at this Fort. It would take days to bring you up to speed on all the history here.”  
Dean smiled. “I leave that stuff up to Sam, here. I’m sure by the time we leave he’ll have it all memorized.”  
McDonald turned to Sam. “A historian, are you?”  
“No,” Sam replied. “I just like to know about places. I’ve done a little research on the Fort on our way over here and I was wondering just which one of your phantoms you are having trouble with. It would be my guess that it would be George.”  
“That’s what we call it, though we don’t know whether or not it’s a man. We don’t know why he’s here, we just know he is.” Ranger McDonald agreed.  
“How is it that you picked George as the trouble maker, Sam?”  
”Your two most famous ghosts are George and the Green Lady; at least, your two best documented ghosts. I know that George has been a problem going back decades. He haunts the Captain’s Quarters and won’t leave the doors alone.”  
Sam went on. “The Green Lady’s last published appearance was in 1871 but it is rumored that she appears every seven years, riding her black stallion at a breakneck pace and disappearing without warning out in the hills. I just don’t see her coming into the fort and causing trouble.”  
Ranger McDonald sat back in his chair and took a sip of his drink. “Yes, it’s George who has become a bigger problem for us. We can’t keep those doors locked anymore. They get opened as soon as somebody turns their back. We’ve needed to post guards lately. There are a lot of value antiques in that building that anyone would be happy to wander off with. Besides that, George used to slap the guards on the back as they went on their rounds trying to lock up. Lately the slaps have escalated to the point that guards are actually ending up on the ground from the force of them. I’m afraid that someone is really going to get hurt.”  
Ranger McDonald eyed the Winchesters. “You guys sure you can clean this up for us? You’re awfully young for so called experts.”  
“Don’t worry about us.” Dean replied. “We were raised in this life. Just point us to the Captain’s Quarters and give us a guard to show us the hot spots. We’re going to get some gear out of the car. The only thing we are going to ask of you is to provide a place in the building where we can draw on the floor and not screw anything up.”  
“The entry way is mortared brick. Will that work? I’ll take you around and show you the building. As much as possible I want this whole thing limited as to the number of people involved.”

XXXXXXX

Ranger McDonald got them settled in the entryway, a sort of tunnel that went through the middle of the officer’s quarter to provide cover for men arriving on horseback. The brick floor was worn smooth from decades of use. The old two story wood frame house still was in good condition, something Dean thought Ranger McDonald took care of just as much as the lawn and the driveway. Not even inanimate objects were allowed to slack off under the ranger’s watchful eye.  
They watched as the guards went around locking the perimeter doors. “Just leave these two entry doors alone.” Dean instructed. “We’ll take care of them later.”  
They settle down on the steps and waited for the men to leave. Once alone Sam got down on his knees and started drawing traps on the bricks. These were not demon traps. These were spirit traps and not a normal part of a hunter’s equipment. Sam had studied Bobby’s books all his life and thought that these circles and the associated symbols could hold a spirit when there were no bones or artifacts left. They were especially helpful with ghosts of unknowns, such as George.   
One old guard, who had since retired, had named the ghost George simply to have something to call it. The old man had talked to George as if George were a friend of his and Sam and Dean suspected the reason that George had gone bad was because his only friend no long came around   
They placed a copper bowl on the brick and Sam added various herbs and talismans.  
“God damn it, Sam. Is this going to take blood?” Dean whined.   
Sam rocked back on his heels and looked at his brother. “When have we ever done one of these spells that didn’t need blood, Dean?” Sam placed the bowl in the center of one of his circles and sat back down on the steps. He sliced his palm and reached out for Dean’s. The brothers’ blood splashed into the bowl.  
“Now what?” Dean grumbled as he wrapped a strip of cloth over his slashed palm.  
“Now we wait until we see these doors swinging open. That increases our chances of getting the spirit in one of the circles when we light up the summoning bowl. So get comfortable. We may be here a while.” Sam replied.  
“While we’re waiting, why don’t you tell me all about the Lady in Green?” Dean asked.  
“You can’t hit on her Dean, so what’s the point? Sam laughed. It’d be a long time between dates. She only comes around about every seven years.”  
Dean smacked Sam’s shoulder. “Smartass. Just tell me the story, bitch.”  
“Alright, alright, don’t hit me, I’m talking. It’s just you are usually telling me to shut up.” Sam was smiling and pushed is brother off the step. “Jerk.”  
“In the mid 1800’s an officer arrived here bringing with him his teen-aged daughter. She was a lovely, high spirited young lady with long dark hair and an attitude uncommon for the times. He father dragged her out here to the edge of the Frontier to keep her from marrying a man he father deemed unsuitable. His daughter did not agree and became angry and unmanageable. “  
“Mostly likely as a form of rebellion she took long, solitary rides on a black stallion her father owned. She would ride out for hours, alone, across the Sioux dominated plains. One day, as you might expect, she didn’t come back.”  
Dean looked up at a scrapping sound. One of the heavy entrance doors had moved. As he watched, it settled and he thought it might just be the prairie wind that moved it. The air was growing chill and the wind moaned over the Wyoming hills, blowing straight through their summoning scene.  
Sam went on. “Over the years sightings of her were reported and the local Sioux clans and tribal bands began to talk of a Wasicun woman on a black horse who rode the hills alone.”  
“There is a documented sighting from 1871. A Lt. James Nicholas Allison arrived that year to take up command of a cavalry unit. He and some of his new friends went wolf hunting one afternoon and he and his dog got separated from the group.”   
“While riding the hills back to the fort he saw a lone woman, dressed in green riding a large black stallion all out down in the valley. Her hair was streaming loose from her hat and a black veil covered her face. Even at the speed the horse was traveling she was urging it on with blows from a riding crop. Believing her to be in imminent danger from a pursuer Allison wheeled his horse and charged down the hill.”  
“She rode up the other side of the valley and Allison’s horse was no match for the stallion. By the time he reached the top of the hill she was gone. He could see miles in every direction and could not see the rider or her horse.”  
“One thing struck Allison as strange at that point. His dog had not pursued the rider with him. The dog had stayed at the point where Allison had first seen the woman.”   
Dean heard the entry door move again. It was still only a light scrapping noise but he decided to keep an eye peeled.  
Sam went on with his story. “When Allison returned to the fort he was set on getting up a search party but his fellow officers told him not to bother. He had seen The Green Lady and she had been presumed dead for decades. No search party was going to help.”  
“No one knows how she died. No one ever found her body or the carcass of the stallion. She simply rides the Wyoming Hills, fleeing from a danger only she knows.”  
With Sam’s last word the entry door slammed full open and Dean dived for the summoning bowl. Tossing his lighter in, the materials ignited, sending a small tower of flame straight up. The flame sunk down and a wind vortex formed, rattling the bowl.  
“What now, Sam?” Dean yelled.  
“I think we’ve got him.” Sam agreed. “Let me get out my prayer.”  
“Not an exorcism?”  
“He’s a spirit, not a demon.” Sam replied. “I just want to set him to rest, not to Hell. I have some Catholic prayers that are proven powerful. As long as he was a Christian, they should work”  
Prayer of St. Thomas Aquinas

Grant me, O Lord my God,  
a mind to know you,  
a heart to seek you,  
wisdom to find you,  
conduct pleasing to you,  
faithful perseverance in waiting for you,  
and hope of finally embracing you.  
Amen

A prayer for the Forgotten Dead

O merciful God,  
Take pity on this soul  
Who has no particular friends and intercessors  
To recommend him to Thee, who,  
Either through the negligence of those who are alive,  
Or through length of time is now forgotten  
By his friends and by all.  
Spare him, O Lord,  
And remember Thine mercy  
When others forget to appeal to it.  
Let not the souls which Thou hqst created  
Be parted from thee, their Creator.

May the souls of all the faithful departed,  
Through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Amen

Silence descended.


	2. The Ghost in Thelma Todd's Garage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ghost in Thelma Todd’s Garage

The Winchesters were heading for Santa Monica, California from Las Vegas. They had driven through the Mojave Desert towards Victorville and intended to drop into the L.A. Basin by way of the El Cajon Pass. 

“You’ll like this, Dean,” Sam smiled. “We start at 3,700 feet and end up at sea level. It’s like landing a plane.” They had covered the 300 miles from Las Vegas by taking turns driving and Sam was currently at the controls. It had taken five and a half hours to cover the trip because of the traffic and Dean had a twist in his shorts about it.. 

“Never again, Sam.” Dean grumped. “This place is just too crowded. Give me some wide open spaces without somebody’s tail pipe in my face.’  
“And now you tell me that we’re going to turn the Impala into an airplane. Sounds good, bitch.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t help it, that’s just the way it is. The L.A. Basin is like a giant bite out of the coastal mountains. It’s a huge bite, hundreds of miles from edge to edge and only the northern side is a gradual rise. We’re dropping down between two mountain ranges on the Southern edge; the San Bernardino range and the San Gabriel range and it’s like falling off a cliff. Wait until you see it.”

“I don’t want to see it,” Dean grumped. “I don’t like the place. Why are we here anyway?”

Sam wanted to pet Den on the head like he was calming a growling puppy but thought he might get his hand bitten off. “Lighten up, bro. We’re going to see a man about a ghost then we’re going to hunt it and we’ll be right on the beach. When we’re done we can go sit on the sand and watch the early morning surfers.”

They rumbled on through the flat urban sprawl of L.A., The freeways wove their ways through the landscape like veins in a piece of meat. The cars never ended, they never stopped. There were neon signs on the side of the freeway for a while then there came a break and there would be trees or hills, or freaking piles of crumbling soil and then another urban landscape was presented. 

“Do you know where we are right now? “ Sam asked.

“How would I know? It all looks the same and then it freaks out and the houses disappear and trees grow all lonely on hillsides. This is one weird road.” Dean replied.

“Well, on the other side of this pass is the city of Pasadena, where they hold the Rose Parade every New Year’s Day. This pass is where a hundred years ago bandits would wait for people trying to get to the San Fernando Valley. They would be ambushed and murdered for whatever they had on them. The bandits were never caught and now they say that the ghosts of the dead are trapped here in the pass.” Sam looked over the soft brown hills. “I understand you never want to break down on this road at night. You can still hear the victims screaming.”

“You tell such charming stories, Sam.” Dean muttered. “We aren’t here for these ghosts, right? Let’s just move on to the one we agreed to gank and get out of town. How about San Francisco?” 

Sam smiled at his antsy brother. “Calm down. We’ll get there.”

They drove on through the city and finally found the freeway that took them out to the Pacific Ocean. When the Santa Monica Freeway ended with a tunnel they came out on the Pacific Coast Highway, watching the sun begin to sink into the ocean and the traffic begin to build on one of the busiest road systems in the world.

“Do we have to take this road, Sam?” Dean whined as another car brushed by and he imagined he heard the grinding of metal panels.

“Sorry, Dean. The location is right on this roadway, set back not more than fifty feet. Just enough room for a long, thin parking lot. We’ll be alright. Please calm down.” Sam was nervous enough wrestling his way between more cars than he had ever had to deal with before and they seemed to be coming from all directions. His heart was in his throat and now he had to deal with a flinching big brother

“You aren’t helping, you know,“ Sam complained through gritted teeth. “Try and keep calm. I’m sure they aren’t really trying to hit us.”  
Dean crossed his arms. “I blame you for this.”

Sam pounded his head on the steering wheel.

“Hey,” barked Dean. “Watch where you’re going, bitch. You scratch this car and you’ll wake up bald in the morning.”

“Really not helping, Dean.” Sam ground out again and then glanced at his brother. All he could see was the seat of Dean’s pants. His idiot brother was leaning out the window, yelling at the other drivers. Sam grabbed Dean by his belt and dragged him back through the window, banging Dean’s head on the frame.

“What the hell, Sam! That hurt!” Dean sat rubbing the back of his head where he had clipped the window.

“It hurts a lot less than you getting shot in the face,” Sam snapped. “This is freaking L.A., man. A lot of the drivers you’re yelling at are armed. I’ve told you twice now. You aren’t helping. I need you to help me. This is ridiculous. It’s like being stuck in a car video game.” Sam was turning red and his hands were so tight on the steering wheel that there was a good possibility that he might snap it.

“Alright, Sammy,” Dean finally answered in a reasonable voice. “What do you need me to do? Calm down, little brother. We’ll work it out. What do you need?”

“I need you to navigate. We need to find the intersection of this road and San Vicente Blvd. Keep an eye out for the signs. The sun is setting into my eyes and I don’t seem to be able to read the signs. Is there a pair of sunglasses anywhere in the car?”

Dean started pawing through the car, looking for sunglasses. Now that he had a clear headed moment he noticed that almost every driver on the road was wearing shades. He had always regarded wearing shades to be the sign of a weakling but now he got the feeling that in L.A. they were an essential part of the road warrior’s kit.

“Ok, Sam, this light is San Vicente Boulevard, ” Dean called out.

Sam responded, “Now watch along that side of the road. You’re looking for a long multi-storied building built into the cliff face. I’m going to work my way over to the right and as soon as you see it we’re bailing out of this circus.”

They finally found safe harbor in an old, busted up parking lot. Everything was old, including the man sitting on the steps waiting for them. Once they parked the man stood up and walked to the driver’s side window. “Hi, I’m Rodney George. Are you kids the ghost hunters?” 

Sam looked over the old man’s face. He was worn and looked tired. Too many years and too many stories had passed before his eyes, each one cutting a new line in his face.

Sam exited the car, shaking out his jean’s legs. “Hi, I’m Sam Campbell and this is my brother Dean. I guess you were expecting us, Mr. George.”

‘Please call me Rodney. It’s bad enough getting old without you kids rubbing it in,” the old man responded.

“Sorry.” chorused both Sam and Dean.

“Well, come on in and I’ll show you where we have trouble.” They followed Rodney into the building.

Once inside Sam turned in a circle, taking in all the detail he could. “So this was Thelma Todd’s restaurant, right?

Rodney looked at Sam.” Bit of an old film buff, are you?”  
“Me and my brother too. Dean seems to like the stories after the Second World War and I like the ones before. We pretty much cover it from that viewpoint.” Sam went on. “You actually knew Thelma Todd?”

Rodney nodded his head. “Yeah, I knew her, in a way. I was a bus boy here in the restaurant. “ He pulled out a picture from a leather case on the table and handed it to Sam. Sam took a brief look and handed it off to Dean.

“Wow,” Dean exclaimed. “She was really beautiful.” He handed the picture back to Rodney.

“They called her “the Hot Toddy”, “the Ice Cream Blonde” and “the Blonde Venus”. Rodney murmured. The old man stroked the picture lightly, removing invisible dust then put it back in the case.

“Yes, she was beautiful. Miss Massachusetts of 1925. Got her first picture contract based solely on that photo. It was silent movies at the time. They were just starting out here in L.A. with the movies. The city grew along with Hollywood.”

Rodney sat down and waved the Winchesters into chairs. He pulled some beers out of a cooler that was hiding under the table. “Nine years,” he muttered softly. “Nine years was all it took this place to kill her. Suicide the District Attorney said. Suicide! With busted ribs and a fat lip and blood all over the car’s upholstery, they called it Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed.”

“How, did they get away with that?” Sam asked quietly. He knew an open wound when he saw one.

“They called them the Roaring Twenties for a reason.” Rodney went on. “Drinking and drugs and gambling and watch your back, protect what’s yours or someone will try to take it away from you. Girls in short dresses, all night parties, fancy cars, Hollywood was Sodom and Gomorra to the rest of the county.”

“Those in power were worried that one more scandal would sink the whole thing. There had been a string of scandals; Fatty Arbuckle’s orgy party, Rudy Valentino’s bigamy trial, so many others. And they were getting in the papers! No T.V. or internet then. Things were easier to hide.”

“Poor Thelma had a thing for bad boys. The night she died she had a public screaming match with her ex-husband, Pat DeCicco, a playboy with a nasty streak and Mafia connections. The fight had occurred in public at the Trocadero nightclub. When she got home the night of December 15, 1935 she had another loud screaming match with her boyfriend and business partner, Roland West, who locked her out of the apartment and went to bed. That fight was loud enough to wake the neighbors. On his death bed West was still claiming that her death was his fault. That if he hadn’t locked her out she would still be alive.”

“No one really knew what happened after that or how she ended up locked in the garage with the car’s engine running, dressed in a full length mink coat and $20,000 in gems. A third bad boy in her life was “Lucky” Luciano, the Mafia boss who wanted to put a gambling den on the third floor of the restaurant. Thelma had told him “No” and Luciano didn’t like it.”

Rodney paused and took another swing of his beer. “Three men, all with reason to hurt her. Broken ribs, two broken teeth, a broken nose and the district Attorney declared it a “Suicide!” Her mother was pushing to get it recognized as a murder and a Grand Jury was convened to take evidence in spite of the corrupt District Attorney but it was too late. Someone got to the witnesses and no one would talk any more. The Grand Jury got nowhere.”

“That alone stunk of Mafia and what do we have? A Mafia guy on the list of suspects, She never had a chance.”

Rodney sighed. “No wonder she walks from the apartment to the garage every night.” Another sigh. “It has to stop. She needs to rest. Can you help her?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Do you know where she’s buried?”

Rodney looked up. “She was cremated. Her ashes were put in an urn that was buried with her mother out in Massachusetts. Mother and daughter in the same coffin, but that doesn’t give her rest.” Once again he asked, “Can you give her spirit rest?”

Sam stood up and placed his empty beer bottle on the table. “We’ll do our best, Mr. George. Can you show us where she walks? And can we have the place to ourselves tonight?”

“I’ll go make sure no one will bother you. Then I’ll show you where Thelma walks.” Rodney left them alone.

“What are we going to do about this, Sam?” Dean asked.

“She’s got to go down somehow.” Sam replied. “I’m just worried about why a spirit walks when the body is supposedly cremated. I only hope it is not a spirit in quest of revenge. That would be real tough.”

Dean picked at the label on his empty beer bottle. “You think there’s another beer in that cooler?”

“Sure, Dean. Good to know you have a laser like focus on the really important stuff, jerk.” Sam snorted. “I’ll just hang out over here and think about our hunt.” 

“No need to be a bitch about it, Sammy. I think better on beer.” Dean settled into the chair next to the cooler.

“You know what, Sammy?” Dean said after the next beer. “Come sit down over here. I have an idea.”

Sam sat at the table and, just to be a hypocrite, took another beer from Rodney’s cooler.

“Look, there has to be something left here.” Dean confided. “What was there? The clothes she was wearing, the jewelry, the car. Ok, those things we can look for. I just hope it’s not Rodney’s picture. I think that would break his heart. She had an apartment in the building. Maybe some of her stuff is left”

“Everything’s gone.” Rodney’s voice came over Dean’s shoulder.

“Oh, didn’t hear you come back in, Rodney.” Dean turned and looked at the old man. “Hope you don’t mind that we drank your beer.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Rodney laughed. “If that’s all you guys want I’m happy to provide it though I thought I would go a little further than that and at least give you gas money.”

Sam spoke up. “We’ve been thinking about this and we can see two ways this can go down. As long as the spirit hasn’t gone bad we just have to find whatever she’s attached to and burn it.”

Rodney grabbed the last bottle of beer out from under Dean’s hand. “Got a drinking problem, boy? Welcome to the club and take a close look. This is you in 40 more years if you keep it up.” He settled in one of the chairs. “So that’s the easy way? What’s the hard way?”

Dean fielded this one. “If her spirit has turned inward and is concentrating on revenge we may have to do a full-fledged exorcism. I guarantee that neither you nor we want to have to do that. It’s long and messy and leaves a stain anywhere it is performed.”

“Well, how do we find out?” Rodney asked.

“Is there anything here from that night?” Sam asked.

Rodney looked around the room. “Oh, God, yes there is. Right there.” He pointed a shaky old man’s finger at a glass case mounted on the wall.

“What is this?” Dean asked. “Is this really the dress she died in? What kind of an idiot put this up?”

Rodney replied, “That stupid bastard Roland West. He was her business partner so he took over the restaurant after she died. He knew she had been the big draw that brought in all the hot parties. He thought if he could pretend it was a kind of a shrine to her he could keep the dollars rolling in for a while. I told you she went for the bad boys.”

“That wasn’t just a bad boy,” Dean sneered. “He was a creep too.”

“Let’s get this opened up. I’ll go get some tools.” Dean headed for the door. “What you think Sam? Is this a possibility?”

“Oh yeah, this should work.” Sam responded. “No matter how they try to clean something like that there’s always something left behind. Between possible blood stains and the fact that this dress may have been the last thing she saw, it should be highly effective.”

Rodney took them out to a pathway between the house and the garage. Thy sat down on some metal garden benches and watch Sam as he set up their ‘magic’. He found an old bird bath that still was pretty sturdy. He placed his ever faithful copper bowl on it with Thelma’s shimmering blue dress in the bowl, soaking in gasoline and poured salt on top of that. They sat down and waited. At about four in the morning a pale, frighten figure of a woman half ran, half stumbled, down the walkway. She constantly looked behind her and fear was etched on her face.

Dean stood in the path and held his hand out to her. She eyed the stranger’s hand and Dean hoped that Sammy would hurry up so that he didn’t have to let her touch it.

There was a soft ‘whoomp’ behind him and the ghost appeared to wrap up in her new flaming coat, no longer cold and, somehow Dean knew, no longer afraid of whatever was chasing her.

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

I used the book, “Haunted Houses of California” (1990) by Antoinette May as a reference for this story.


	3. Warriors on the Hilltop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warriors on the Hilltop

The wind stirred the tall dry grass on the top of a modest hill in Northwestern Nebraska. There was nothing to see; a half dry stream ran at the bottom of the hill and vistas of clear blue sky that went on forever, as the sky had a tendency to do on the plains. There were no buildings, no people; nothing to indicate that it wasn’t 1775 or 1875 or any particular date at all. The prairie lay peaceful under the sun,

Nothing had changed since the buffalo had gone away a long, long time ago, along with the pony riders who followed the herds. The thunder of the bison’s hooves had faded away a hundred years before. Now there was only the wind and, at night, the hoot of hunting owls, looking for mice in the grass.

But if you sat at the top of the hill, overlooking Warbonnet Creek, or Hat Creek, as it was now known, and you stayed until the moon was up you could hear the whispers of men, volume now rising, now falling, masked by the noise of the wind blown grass. Like a radio with bad reception those voices from the past traded secrets throughout the night.

XXXXX

Winchesters in their natural habitat, that was the atmosphere inside the Impala. Driving straight through the night they had come out of the West; from the northeast edge of Colorado to a road straight as the proverbial stick, stretching across the prairie state of Nebraska. The morning sun bounced off Dean’s sun glasses.

He yawned and reached over to poke at Sam. “Hey, bitch, feel like breakfast?”

Sam woke and yawned. Stretching his arms out, he accidently punched the car roof with one hand while the other reach out the window. Dean saw him pet the roof of the car, sort of an apology for hitting the roof inside. Dean smiled. He loved his car but it was also about the only permanent home Sam had ever known. Dean had always suspected that Sam knew that the ‘pala had feelings.

Dean wondered how the hell his brother had grown so large. He was also pleased that it had happened on big brother’s watch. He had done a good job raising the kid and he was proud of it.

“Sam, do you remember when you were little that you called the car ‘pala? 

Sam’s lips twitched with a small smile. “No, I don’t really remember that. How old was I? Five? Six?

“Old enough.” Dean smiled. “She has always been a big, black security blanket, for both of us. It’s OK to apologize when you hurt her.”

“So you saw that, did you?” Sam actually blushed.

God, the kid was so easy, Dean thought to himself. “So, breakfast sound good?”

“Absolutely. Let’s find a diner,” Sam reached in the back and pulled some papers out of his duffle. “Since we’re so close I thought we might go see Warbonnet Creek. I want to show you some stuff about it. We need a table.”

“Sam, we can’t go wandering off on every side road that attracts your attention,” Dean shook his head. “We’ll never get where we’re going.”

They pulled into a rest area with a diner, parked and continued bickering on their way to the door. 

“Dean,“ Sam went on. “It’s just a day and a night. That poltergeist is still going to be there on Thursday. Besides it’s our civic duty to go see this place. It’s haunted. We should go mop it up and make sure no one gets into trouble.”

The hostess came forward to seat them and was knocked back on her heels with the power of a full-on Dean Winchester smile. He winked at her and poked an elbow into Sam side at the same time.

“Oof.” Sam responded. “Look at that, you’re multi-tasking. I knew that brain cell of yours had a friend. Two thoughts at once! You make me proud, big brother.”

“Shut up, Sam.” 

Dean found out that the hostess’s name was Bonnie and he worked his magic. They were quickly seated at a large table that Bonnie’s boss liked to reserve for families and groups but Bonnie was convinced that Dean needed room to go over maps of the property he wanted to buy, right here, in this very town. The poor girl was dizzy with expectation.

“Dean.” hissed Sam. “Can’t you keep it in your pants for at least one meal?”

Dean smirked back at Sam. “Why should I? Never know when you might need a backup plan.”

Sam pushed all the hardware on the table top aside and spread out a couple of maps and a bright, shiny tourist’s brochure.

“Looks like the Chamber of Commerce puked on the table.” Dean said, pushing at the brochure with a finger. “What’s the story here, Sam?”

The story of the Indian wars,” Sam responded. “The same old story; an indigenous people pushed out by another culture that was more violent and greedy; grasping for land to maintain its own ever expanding population. “

“Whoa, National Geographic much?” Dean sipped his coffee and smiled a thank you at Bonnie.

“Ok, I know,” Sam responded. “I’m beating a drum for a long lost battle. But the Cheyanne had lived in Minnesota as farmers and fishermen for thousands of years and their world crumbled around them. Pushed ever further Westward they became a warrior culture. They became a hunting culture. Mounted on tough native horses they learned to hunt the buffalo over the grasslands. But the hated settlers always followed them and the buffalo began to disappear.”

Bonnie dropped plates of food in front of them, almost dumping Sam’s in his lap since she could not take her eyes off Dean. 

“Oh, so sorry,” she muttered insincerely, ineffectively flapping a dish towel at him. 

“It’s all right. No harm done.” Sam responded.

“Get a move on, Sam.” Dean waved at the maps, “before she pours your coffee refill on your balls.”

‘You’ve heard of Custer’s Last Stand and the Battle of the Little Bighorn, right?” Sam lectured.

“Who hasn’t?” Dean replied. “What does that have to do with this Warbonnet Creek haunting? I suppose it’s a haunting, you haven’t exactly got that far yet.”

“Oh, it’s a haunting alright,” Sam went on.

“What is not generally mentioned, or published in school books is that the Cheyenne had been massacred twice in the preceding decade. The Sand Creek Massacre of November 1864 killed 150 to 200 Cheyenne, predominately unarmed women and their children. The Cheyenne, Sioux and the Arapahoe joined together and in January of 1865 they attacked the army’s Camp Ranken with about 1,000 warriors.“

“Four years later, on November 17, 1868, George Armstrong Custer and his troops attacked a band of Cheyanne at the Battle of Washita River. The thing was, the Washita River camp was a defined Indian reservation. Custer and his men killed more than 100 peaceful Cheyanne, most of them, again , women and children.

The anger grew in the tribes. These men lost their world. They lost the prairies their fathers and grandfathers before them, had ridden as Kings. They lost the buffalo, killed off by Europeans not for food but for furs, leaving behind prairies full of denuded carcasses. They lost their wives and their children to armed men who regarded their loved ones as mere animals. No wonder Little Big Horn happened.

The Cheyanne, the Sioux and the Arapahoe gathered on June 25, 1876 and killed Custer and much of his 7th Calvary. That was Custer’s Last Stand. The Indians saw it as revenge, the American government saw it as aggression and responded with another General and another Army.”

“Sam.” Dean said. “Take a breath. Your eggs are congealing.”

Sam stopped and shoveled food into his mouth. Dean kept an eye on him in case he choked trying to get it down as fast as possible. Dean really enjoyed it when Sam became passionate about a subject. The warmth spread from one bother to the other and Dean felt like his world took a breath and became something precious again, something to be guarded. 

Sam stopped shoveling and continued with his story. “After Little Bighorn the Cheyanne broke up into smaller bands and gradually they were swept up by the Army and placed on “reservations”.

“These reservations were poorly maintained and poorly stocked. It was cold in Nebraska and the tribes had no nourishing food, or firewood or ways to protect their broken families. In the summer of 1876 about 200 to 300 hundred warriors made a break for the Black Hills of South Dakota where their allies, the Sioux, could protect them.”  
The government ordered Colonel Wesley Merritt and the 5th Calvary to intercept these breakaway Cheyanne and return them to the reservation. Along with Merritt was someone you’ll recognize, the Indian Scout, “Wild Bill” Cody.”

“I know him,’ Dean crowed. “ He was cool.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam growled. “He was really cool. The 5th Calvary intercepted the Cheyanne at Warbonnet Creek, our ghost site, and a supposed “duel” occurred between Wild Bill and a young warrior called Heova’che or Yellow Hair. Cody killed Yellow Hair with his Winchester carbine ( Dean made a small cheer) and then pulled out his Bowie knife and scalped Yellow Hair. “

“This scalping was the first “Scalp for Custer” incident and set off a wave of scalpings in “revenge” for Custer’s death.” Sam stopped to breathe and regain his temper. “Cody kept Yellow Hair’s scalp and feather war bonnet, knife, and saddle and used them as props in his Wild West shows.”

“The U. S. Government gave Cody the Medal of Honor for his service in the Indian wars. Today both he, and Custer, would be regarded as war criminals.”

“A little harsh there, Sam.” 

“When someone says to you ‘it won’t matter in a hundred years’ this is what matters a hundred years later; lives lost, families broken and ruined. History washed in Cheyanne blood. It is best to remember that the victors in war write the history books, the defeated lose their voice.”

Dean’s hand paused above the tip tray. He dropped the money on top of the check, gave Bonnie another brilliant smile and said “Ok, I guess we’re on our way to Warbonnet Creek, You call fill me in on the haunting in the car. Thanks for the history lesson and for completely destroying one of the few historical figures that I admired.”

“Sorry, Dean.” Sam replied. “It’s always better to know the truth.”

XXXXXXX

Back in the Impala Sam continued with his findings on the ghost. 

“I just don’t understand where this ghost or ghosts come from,” he complained. “Yellow Hair was the only recorded death in this ’battle’ and I don’t know what he would be doing up on the hill.”

“Tough one.” Dean answered just to sympathize.

“I’ll tell you what, I may not have any idea who is up on that hill but I might have an idea what do to about it. As we go through these little towns keep your eyes peeled for a market and some kind of tobacco shop. I need to buy some stuff.

“Ok, Mr. Mysterious.” Dean responded. “Do you have any recent sightings of these supposed ghosts? We could just be chasing a local legend.”

Sam started, “In September 1983 two men, John Grant and Lester Barton were participants in an historical reenactment of the bivouac of the Fifth Calvary. In these “living history “reenactments they go pretty far. Acting as Calvary men or Indian scouts the re-enactors dress the part and even follow the rules of a military encampment of a hundred years ago. They even had guard duty rotations which lead to first Grant and then Barton pulling guard duty on the top of the hill overlooking Warbonnet Creek.”

”As Grant told the story, it was a cold night and the view was spectacular. The moon appeared and disappeared behind the clouds as an approaching storm lit up the horizon with lightening. There was only wind, dark clouds and sporadic lightening.”

Sam took a breath and went on. “He then heard men whispering. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but it was definitely men’s voices and the whispering was all around him. He stood and circled the monument built on top of the hill and when he came back around to where he had been sitting there was a greenish mist “boiling” along the ground and moving upward towards the monument. “Boiling” was his word. It was his best attempt to describe the movement of the mist.”

“He had a half an hour left in his rotation but he just took off. He ran to the duty tent and met Lester Barton coming out to replace him. Grant said nothing to Barton.”

Den glanced over at his brother. “Spooky, Sam. A lovely crawling mist. You take me out to all the best places.”

“Shut up, jerk. Early the next morning Grant and Barton got together. They found that they had both seen the same thing and they were both completely freaked out. They reported the sighting and the sounds to their University’s history department and the story got out. That why we are heading to Warbonnet Creek. Actually, it has been re-named. It is now Hat Creek, and lies just northwest of Hayes, Nebraska.” Sam fell silent.

It wasn’t too long before they passed through a fairly large town and Sam spotted a smoke shop. He had Dean drop him off and he sent Dean to go find a market and buy some sugar, a cloth bag for the sugar, if he could find one, and maple sugar candies. “Get any kind of candy, Dean, but it must be pure. No processed candy. If you can’t find anything like that forget it and just get the sugar.”

They met back together in front of a Starbucks. “See, Sam,” Dean snorted. “Civilization even deep inside rural Nebraska. “

It was late afternoon when they set off to the “Hat Creek State Historic Site”, now maintained by the State of Nebraska, a proud memorial to the destruction of the Cheyanne. They pulled up about a half mile from the Park Ranger’s building and waited for the rangers to leave. 

In the early twilight they gathered together a duffle bag with some blankets and weapons, just in case, and Sam’s shopping list of items. They hiked up to the top of Monument Hill and looked out over the prairie. Just like the night of John Grant’s re-enactment it was cloudy and windy. They didn’t get the lightening display but the night was young. 

They spread out their blanket under the lip of the monument and huddled together.

“Great, Sam,” Dean grumbled. “A picnic in the dark. Here, give me some more of that blanket, you pig. You’re hording it. We got anything to drink?” He propped his feet up on their duffle, ankles crossed.

“I didn’t bring you out here to get drunk like a couple of teenagers in a graveyard,” Sam grumbled right back. “Quiet down. Remember? We’re listening for whispers.” Sam grudgingly let Dean steal more of their blanket and sat with his back against the cold stone monument, his eyes closed, straining to hear whispers. 

“So, Sam,” Dean spoke. “You have any ideas about who these ghosts might be?”

“Yes, I do. You have to remember these men had been held on a reservation all winter with very little food, in most likely insanitary conditions and without heat. The diseases the whites brought with them swept through the Indian populations. They were desperate to reach the Black Hills and the Sioux but they were malnourished, weak from ill-treatment and most likely sick. Some of them many have simply died here from natural causes and their companions buried them. “

“I’m pretty sure it’s not Yellow Hair although he would have a perfect right to haunt. Cody shot him from a coward’s distance, then scalped and looted his body. Somehow, though, I just don’t see him up on this hill whispering. I’d think he’d be out there trying to kill himself some Park Rangers.”

“Good point.” Dean agreed. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“Well, we have no hope of finding bones, I can’t talk to them because I don’t know their language and I doubt very much if they will lay down for Catholic prayers so I’m going to try and buy the hill from them.”

Dean laughed. “You’re going to buy the Hill?”

“I brought these bags of loose tobacco to pay for the ground. We brought sugar for their wives and I had some bracelets in the car made of quartz. We brought candy for their kids. If I set this stuff up like an offering some of them may re-connect with their wives and kids. It’s the best I can do.” Sam set out with his hands full to look for a safe place to leave his offerings.

Dean watched his brother and wondered how it was that Sam could connect so easily with the dead. 

When the whispering started there was no need to strain to hear it. Dean looked around automatically and there was nothing there. He was about to call out to Sam when he noticed that his brother seemed to be walking through a green mist that collected around his legs below the knees. The mist rolled and bubbled just like boiling water. Dean ran after Sam.

“Sam, don’t look now but you’re walking through a boiling green mist.” Dean said when he caught up.. 

“Good,” Sam responded. “Good to know that they’re here.” He found some loose rocks and hid his gifts under of pile of them. “Let’s go, Dean. It’s all I can do for them.” 

XXXXXXX

The brothers gathered their things and headed down the hill, back to the car. Behind them the Nebraska wind still carried the sound of men whispering but now there were also women’s voices and the laughter of children.


End file.
